


Shameful

by cervidcell



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking and Entering, F/M, Kinda, Masturbation, Minor Guro Mention, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader is not named or described, Reader-Insert, Smut, hyde is manipulative, minor yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 08:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18028523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cervidcell/pseuds/cervidcell
Summary: Being bombarded twenty-four-seven with imagery of his master -hands and knees, moaning for him, he's the last thing she sees before she dies, and that solidifies that she's his forever- it all takes it's toll on him.He's still disgusted, he knows that.But a tiny,deeplyashamed part of him knows that it'sthosethoughts, the ones Hyde supplies him with, that keep him up at night. The same thoughts that burn heat through his veins and cause him to shamefully grasp himself with sweaty palms. The same thoughts that make him bury his face in his pillows, grind into the eiderdown sheets and bite back a moan, so nobody can hear howruinedhe gets over something so sinful. Because it's surelyforcedfrom him; never asked for, never wanted, but demanded nonetheless.





	Shameful

It's been a long day.

  
Far longer than the usual ones; ones where Jekyll was by your side, serving as your Servant. Time would pass by between easy battles with casual conversation and the whispered desire to calm his own fast-beating heart. There's a whisper in the back of his head - always _him_ , or is it himself? The distinction between 'myself' and 'not myself' blurs more every day - and it serenades him with words of longing. Returned affections that surely isn't a possibility - _but how can you know unless you try_?

That one wasn't him.

He's angrier, more brutal; _fuck her. Gut her and fuck her; feel how warm her intestines are around your cock._

It disgusts him.

Or, at least, it used to.

Being bombarded twenty-four-seven with imagery of his master - _hands and knees, moaning for him, he's the last thing she sees before she dies, and that solidifies that she's his forever_ \- it all takes it's toll on him.

He's still disgusted, he knows that.

But a tiny, _deeply_ ashamed part of him knows that it's _those_ thoughts, the ones Hyde supplies him with, that keep him up at night. The same thoughts that burn heat through his veins and cause him to shamefully grasp himself with sweaty palms. The same thoughts that make him bury his face in his pillows, grind into the eiderdown sheets and bite back a moan, so nobody can hear how _ruined_ he gets over something so sinful. Because it's surely _forced_ from him; never asked for, never wanted, but demanded nonetheless.

You're out, on a mission with some of the others, and you'd decided to leave Jekyll behind.

He's okay with it - the lineup most likely wouldn't be too comfortable for an Assassin, and he can't expect you to need him _all_ the time, considering how many other Servants there are. Hyde supplies that _he's your favourite, why should you leave him out of anything,_ but Jekyll ignores it.

Jekyll also ignores the way Hyde sneers Sanson's name; you took _him_ , another Assassin, on the mission with you instead of himself. Why?

It doesn't matter.

He knows it doesn't matter, and this is the worst possible way to be thinking about his Master. If you knew - if you had an _inkling_ to what went through his head, would you still talk to him? Would you still accept him, both as a Servant and as a friend?

 _She would_ , the same voice supplies. _She will._

What makes him so sure?

Hyde changes the conversation.

_Check her room._

A frown twitches on his lips.

That's - that's a surefire way to get you to _hate_ him. Not only would he be invading your personal space, but the huge possibility of you finding out and dropping him off your team for _life_?

It isn't worth it.

He - he _loves_ you, surely. He's taken many hits for you, and will until you don't need him anymore. To put himself in a position like that, one where he can so easily be disregarded, it'd just be cruel, and he wouldn't consider himself exactly masochistic.

_If you check, you can find out what she likes._

Jekyll catches himself entertaining the thought and sighs, burying his face in his hands. It's wrong. Completely and entirely _wrong_.

_You can learn everything about her. Manipulate her. She'll be yours for good._

_Catch her, before she falls for someone else._

_Like that other one, what's his name?_

Hyde quiets for a moment, playing coy.

_Sanson, right?_

_She spends an awful lot of time with him..._

As he debates with himself - Hyde, cruel and brash, pointing each of Jekyll's insecurities out to him and highlighting them blazing red like the heat building on his cheeks - he wanders, idle, striding with purpose but eyes unfocused before the sweet scent of your perfume knocks him back into reality.

 _You clearly want this_ , Hyde cackles.

Your room is stark, clinical, the only reason he knows it's yours is the hint of your scent permeating the air, and the moment it hits his nostrils his heart thumps hard. He doesn't remember his acquiesce, but with everything so _you_ he isn't sure he cares too much anymore.

Hyde's pleased, at least - and that's one less thing to worry about.

Closing the door quietly behind him, his eyes flicker to every corner, take in every decoration, every item of clothing, every paper left laying around. Anything he can get his eyes on he drinks in like a man starved. A part of him knows that to know you more he needs to dig - crouch low and pull apart the drawers under your bed, slip fingertips into stowed-away clothing to see just what you like - but he can't bring himself to think too hard about it.

This is wrong.

He tells himself a thousand times over how wrong it is, whilst flipping through a sketchbook of yours. Shakily, he rests on the edge of your bed, by your pillow, and rests the book on his lap. Fingers pluck pages apart, eyes scanning everything you've drawn since you've been here. Large paintings of green pastures, castles, a few face-studies (and he notes that they're of Mash, and he's shocked at his lack of jealousy), and a sprawling painting of the ruins of Fuyuki. The rusted reds and tar-blacks stick out to him, fires muddling fields of once-rich land.

Despite the clear quality to your artwork of Fuyuki, he finds himself drawn to the large, clean pastures, warmth complimenting the open plains, and he finds it beautiful, in a georgic way.

Is this who you are?

His eyes trail over the image, taking in ochre and vermilion, and mixed with the scents of your sheets below him all the information makes him woozy.

You're beautiful, he thinks, and with the sketchbook pinched between his thumb and his forefinger he places it back in it's home with delicate care.

 _She smells good, doesn't she?_ Hyde pipes in, and Jekyll smiles.

You do. You smell like home, like love, like a long day at the beach, the wind drawing the salt from the water into the air. The warmth of the suns rays grazing your skin. You smell like familiarity, and acceptance, and before shame reaches him he presses his nose into the bulk of your pillow.

The thought hits him that _this_ is where you sleep. You must shower at night - he doesn't hear you in the morning, not that he'd admit to loitering outside your room - and he thinks of how you might step out, hair braided, or maybe kept loose, skin soft and warm, ready for his touch. He ponders how you might curl up in bed, if the locks of your hair fall over your eyes, maybe you might snore or whine gently in your sleep, if you fall asleep thinking of him too...

Maybe you touch yourself here...

...

Do you think about him too?

 _She does_ , Hyde supplies. _She probably has toys for that._

No.

This isn't just a breach of trust anymore; if he got caught, you'd never speak to him again.

_Unless she wants it. Just like you do._

He can hear the sneer in Hyde's voice and he _knows_ that he's only out for blood, but it's hard to resist the curiosity.

And what if he's right?

You _have_ been spending an exorbitant amount of time with him; the first person you invite to your room for some free time is him, and you exchanged Valentine's gifts to one another (and for a moment, it looked like you'd blushed). You always make sure to power him up the most, centre the rest of your party around his own strengths and weaknesses, and he's the first one to receive any and all of your best items.

Shit.

The sweat on his brow builds, bubbling to the surface while his breath picks up.

It's wrong - it's _horrible_ \- but he can't help but think about how _here_ , you might have whimpered his name. _Here_ , you might have imagined his fingertips trailing up your thighs. _Here_ , you might have concocted an elaborate imagery of how he might kiss you, slow, dragging down the length of your body, brush his lips against the warmth of you inner thigh, the feel of his tongue pressing sweet little circles into your clit. He can almost feel your grip in his hair, fingers weaved in the mess of rose-blonde, scratching, tugging him closer, smearing your slick across his lips with the steady rock of your hips..

A gasp bubbles in the back of his throat, the thrill of need simmering low in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe he could just..

Jekyll hooks his feet up onto your bed, angling himself away from the door. Tentatively, he presses his nose into your pillow, eyes closed, fingers dancing down his still-clothed torso. His eyelids flutter closed, and with a heavy intake of your scent, he dips his fingertips into his pants. The hair there is soft, and brushes lightly against his palm, where he wraps long, delicate fingers around the base of his length.

Hyde conjures images in his head - y _our nose squished against his pelvis, tears bubbling up in your eyelids, eyebrows furrowed, his hand gripping the tresses of your hair harshly while he rocks his cock into the back of your throat_. It brings a spark of excitement to his already-hard cock, and whilst one part of him feels more ashamed than before, another much larger part of him revels in it, finds the rabbit hole he's treading around tantalising, and the thought of delving deeper makes him simultaneously more scared yet more excited than ever.

The waist of his pants is tight around his wrists - still zipped and buttoned up - but it's _nice_ , and he entertains the thought of you binding him as he pumps his hand over his cock in slow, languid strokes. He buries his face into your pillow, hips rocking in a steady rhythm. At the tip, he runs the pad of his thumb over the head in little circles, smearing precum around.

He draws a shuddered breath.

Shakily, his free hand grasps at your bedside table, sweat-slicked fingers pawing at the handle. It slides open with a creak, and Jekyll throws his hand into it's depths, pulling out a black, lacy pair of panties.

Tentatively, he draws it towards his face, pressing his nose into the crotch. His hips jerk into his clenched fist. Whilst they smell like nothing - a hint of your fabric softener, really, but not much - the thought alone is enough to pull a thinly-veiled growl from his throat.

 _Disgusting_ , he thinks to himself - or maybe it's Hyde, he can't tell - and he's almost ashamed at the way his cock twitches in his grasp at the thought. Images flit through his mind of _you_ , cornering him and pressing your hips against his. You, pinning him to the hallway wall and biting his neck, whispering that he needs to keep quiet. You, legs wrapped around his waist, lips pressed taut against his and a whine under your breath.

You, groaning his name with an arch of your back, cumming around him.

A shocked little gasp tears itself from his throat, and he'd have the sense to be more concerned if the slick of his hand didn't feel so incredible. Impulsively, he bites into your pillow, forcibly muffling his moans while his hand picks up pace. With a frustrated whine, his free hand hastily unbuttons his jeans, pulling himself free from within it's confines. The same hand draws back up in a fist, pressed tight against his lips where he can bite his moans back.

The new angle grants him the freedom to fully immerse himself in the scent of your hair, your skin, the lingering sweat embedded in your panties, and a thought flashes in his mind, hand gripping tighter -

_Do it._

And he does - peeks his tongue out from between dry, bitten lips, and takes a tentative lick along the crotch of your underwear. A taste of nothing, again, and yet he jerks into his hand nonetheless, eyes clenched shut, a needy whisper of your name repeated soft on his lips. The tight pulling at the pit of his stomach tells him he's close, and while he has half a mind to worry over where to cum, the other, much louder half tells him it doesn't matter.

He wants to cum in you.

He wonders how warm you'd be, tight, burning around him, knowing that it's _him_ that's buried so snug inside your cunt. Or maybe you'd prefer it on your face?

Would you wear it proudly? Lick one of your fingers, smear it off, and pop said finger in your mouth to clean off?

Maybe you'd let him pull out, paint his cum on your chest like his very own canvas?

How pretty you'd look, lips bruised, _his_ teeth marks peppered on your skin, face flushed and _his_ name on your lips.

He wants to hold you - _bite you_ \- kiss you - _break you_ \- love you slow and tender - _fuck you senseless_ \- be yours completely - _own you completely_.

A moan wretches itself from his throat and he's grasping for something - anything - to spill his cum into, something that won't burn his cheeks with shame when he slinks out of your room.

His free hand grasps your panties, and before he has enough time to build his concerns he's moaning, eyebrows furrowed, gasps flying unbidden from his lips as he cums into them with an airy whisper of your name. His eyes clench closed as he jerks himself through his orgasm, head tilting back to bury his nose once more in your pillow, committing your shampoo to memory. It's a small comfort to imagine you holding him, breathless just as he is, littering kisses across his cheeks and the corner of his lips. He smiles, at ease, until the first notions of guilt prickle in his skin.

He takes a moment to ignore it, and indulge in the boneless way he seems to melt into your bed. The haze of euphoria washes over him in slow, steady currents. He's weightless, caught in a warm daydream where he toes the line between sedate and asleep, before the guilt bubbles up under the surface of his skin and starts to gnaw at him.

A sigh passes his lips.

He needs to get up. You'll be back within the hour, he assumes, and he's already sullied your bedroom _and_ your bed. Every inch of him begs to lay here, succumb to the weightlessness in his limbs, and bury himself in your scent. The logical part of him tells him to get up, make sure he's left no trace behind, and make his way out.

Hyde's quiet.

Logic wins.

With a grunt, he sits up using shaky elbows, and cleans himself up with your panties. He buttons himself back up, and after quick deliberation, stuffs your panties into his pocket. You most likely wouldn't miss this _particular_ pair, right?

And he can wash them, and the next time you're out, hide them back where he found them.

Yeah.

After a quick once over - smoothing the creases of your bed sheets, fluffing your pillow up, dancing his gaze along every area of his room his feet dared tread - he makes to leave, thoughts of you still buzzing in his head.

And if it takes him a bit longer than expected to return your panties to your room, well, he'll just blame Hyde.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Atroposisms, ActuallyAndroid, and my mate Sirius for being continuing inspirations for me. Love you all x
> 
> Fanfic tumblr: @valeander


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